The Suitcase: runner-up

Runner-up: No Hope, by John D Stories

I read John’s story on my phone last week in between job applications, and I wasn’t all that impressed at first. It didn’t quite ring true, the focus on the mundane details of Rita’s trip was a bit annoying, and hey, ‘dogmaticism’ isn’t actually a word…

It was only today, when I read it properly, that I realised just how well-crafted this piece is. Those mundane details – the Ford Mondeo, the Argyle socks, the strawberry jam – actually help to establish Rita as a character you can believe in, and by building up that rounded picture of who she is and how she thinks, John makes the theme of mistaken identity a more powerful and believable one.

For some readers, the issues around non-consent might be a turn-off, or even a trigger, and I certainly don’t think this is a story that everyone will enjoy. However, for the hot sex, the clever use of the suitcase, and also for Rita’s ultimate triumph, ‘No Hope’ ended up being my second-favourite of the nine stories.

As the runner-up, John wins a copy of Kinksters, by the lovely (and very generous) Giselle Renarde – you lucky boy. I’ve published his story in full below, but you can also find it here, with the rest of his work.

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No Hope

The growl of the engine reverberated angrily in her small compartment; her knees pressed against her chin, vibrating tortuously as she struggled in the car boot, desperate to bring relief to the tired, cramped muscles in her body. All she wanted was to be watching the banal stream of pointless entertainment from her Saturday night television, while wearing her wine-stained onesie and swigging from a bottle of Rioja. She wanted to be home, but somehow found herself in the back of a car boot, winding down country lanes.

It was her usual weekly flight; Copenhagen to Manchester, for arrival in Saturday’s early evening. She even had her usual seat, next to the window, and had sped through passport control and baggage claim in no time. It was usual. Everything was normal, until she reached the bus terminal, and she was grabbed from behind and bundled into the back of a waiting car.

No time to scream, barely time to fight; the cold, gloved hands of her attacker forced her into the open boot, ripping her handbag, containing her mobile phone and valuables, from her grasp. But what could she remember? Little details, Rita, she reminded herself. Little details, she had to be observant. The car: it was green; she remembered that. A light green, faded like pea and mint soup. It was a long car too: a bit like a Ford Mondeo, and her attacker had black facial hair. Little details.

She strained over the roar of the car engine to listen to any clues to where they were going: places, accent, anything, but couldn’t hear a word over the spiteful roar of the car. Her hands hurt as she punched the metal boot, and her shoulders ached as she tried to force the seat, but her compartment remained solid; immovable and inflexible: she was stuck, beholden to the will of her captors.

She struggled to stand when, 30 minutes later, she was hauled from the boot into a cool, brightly-lit area, and fell onto the floor, scrabbling quickly towards the exit as a couple of shapes descended upon her. She screamed, her voice echoing around the large space; bits of straw on the floor, and the feint smell of cow shit: it was a barn, she knew that much.

“No one can hear you Jane,” her captor barked. “No one.”

Rough hands grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet, and dragged her to a large wooden bench. Her lungs burnt as she screamed, pleading pointlessly to her attackers; she wasn’t “Jane,” they had the wrong person, but they ignored her. How did she let herself get in this situation?

Could she have screamed louder, or kicked harder? Could she have done anything more to protect herself from her attackers? She went running in the park every evening after dark and had never been approached, but somehow she was snatched from the centre of a busy International airport. How?

Doubt and fear stalked her mind as she thrown roughly over the wooden furniture; a pair of hands fastened rope to her right wrist, forcing her further over the bench so that her weight uncomfortably rested on her breasts.

“Let me go!” She screamed, her left arm flailing and resisting the immovable bondage of the rope offered, but a sweaty hand squeezed her wrist and pulled her shoulder forward as he restrained her. She yelped in pain; her body seized with fear and terror as the men walked around her in the cold inhumane space.

How many? Four? Five? Six? They had all donned Anonymous masks except the ring leader, and he barked out instructions. “Tie her legs apart. Get her clothes off.”

“No!”

“And get a gag on her.” Rita shook her head, as a hard, uncompromising ball was forced into her mouth; roughly and soullessly.

Her hands curled into fists as her heart pounded against the cold, barren wood of the furniture. She felt slightly dizzy, detached, desperately hoping her experience was a vivid dream caused by an exceptionally ripe piece of Blue Stilton. She pleaded with fate to release her from her nightmare, clawing at hope that the cold steel of scissors cutting her clothes were no more real than the feeling of circulating air against her thighs, the forced parting of her legs or the unwelcome touch on her buttocks.

Ankles, scuffed big black shoes, and green Argyle Socks: the view of the man standing in front of her recorded as she filed the memory away: little details, she reminded herself, might be important.

“You’re going to love this Jane.” She growled into the gag: why wouldn’t he listen; she was not Jane! She felt she was being examined, probed by the dozen eyes in the room as they scrutinised every imperfection on her body. How dare they! She tried to force her legs closed, knowing that there was passing judgement on her intimate areas, as a cold, hard object rolled up her inner thighs.

But not any object: it was vibrating! She groaned into the gag: they meant to force her into arousal, and she struggled helplessly with the unseen bonds, digging the rope deeper into her pale skin. The pain mattered not: she was anxious to spare herself a humiliating violation and desperately flailed, pushing her body against the wooden bench as the vibrator was pushed against her skin.

It was low; a gentle, warm setting: a subtle hue of agitating arousal skipping lightly over her thighs and sex. The man wrapped his hands in her hair, jerking her head sideways as his dominating voice whispered into her ear. “We’re going to make you come like the slut you are!”

She whimpered; unable to resist and answer; the gentle hum of the sex toy rattled in her ears, drowning out the sounds of her heavy breathing. She tried desperately to think of non-sexual things: the price of Strawberry jam, the new supermarket in Wilmslow or the sparkling views over the Cheshire plains, but the relentless wand, pressed against her unwilling cunt, tingled her senses.

She stubbornly refused to acknowledge the sensations; it felt so different to when her last boyfriend would use her toys on her: he would probe her body gently, sliding the vibrating wand over every inch of her arousal, and then, as he pushed it up against soft hole, he would use his tongue to delicately swirl messages on her clitoris: come for me, I love you, fuck me, you’re gorgeous.

This time, she had none of those sweet messages. The soft murmurings of the toy were replaced with stronger, more determined pulses; she closed her eyes, focusing on ignoring the feelings from her sex. It was her versus the toy. Willpower versus the wand. Mind versus matter. She would not let the vibrator win, desperate to retain her dignity and refused to submit to its quivering power.

She tried; tried to resist as fear dominated her concern, but her body betrayed her. The unrelenting dogmaticism of her battery-powered nemesis, taking her deeper towards her unwanted climax. Her clit throbbed as she fought to beat every snatched breath and lust-addled whimper of her climaxing body.

But the men didn’t stop, they upped the power, as her body sent wave after wave of orgasmic delight, forcing undulating groans of desperate desire to escape from her body. All resistance was futile, her body ravished by orgasms and her unable to stop the wand, forced against her sex.

She pleaded with her eyes and twisted her body, as they laughed; they were savouring her humiliation and degradation, but she barely registered their reaction. Her body heaved and contorted with the sensations, and she was almost disappointed when the wand was removed.

“Let me go!” She spat into the gag, knowing that nothing but murmurings could be heard.

“Little cunt wants a bit more, guys,” the man shouted over the top of her and picked up a couple of toys from a table, kneeling down in front of her to display the giant strap-on dildo and the tube of Deep Heat. “One in your cunt and one in your arse if you give us any trouble Jane,” he warned. “But I’ll let you choose what goes where!” He laughed as he left the two items in her view: a reminder of the fate she faced as her buttocks were fondled and patted.

A man walked behind her as she struggled again with the bonds. Her mind floated, anxious to put her situation out of her mind when a belt landed on her backside. She screamed, pointlessly, as blow after ferocious blow of leather punishment landed on her sensitive skin.

The humiliation tore through her; the pain of the degradation as the men watched her beating, fear tingled at her anger; not since she was eighteen had any man dare to lay a finger on her. She silently implored for release; her soul vibrating in agony at the echoing smack of her torment, while her bare buttocks sung in painful indignation at her treatment.

But they continued, thwacking the leather paddle against her naked bottom with powerful strokes; her mind wandered in self defence. Suddenly, she was the errant Victorian school-kid, the medieval witch or the Roman rebel: smacked and tormented for the sadistic pleasure of the powerful. Anything but the naked and bound project manager, tied up in a remote barn by unknown strangers. She was anyone but Rita.

Her skin tingled as the straps were lay across her back; the gruff voice spoke above her and the sound of feet leaving the barn. Her heart jumped; her skin shivering to the touch as hands touched her wrists, freeing her.

“There you go Jane. Kidnapped, orgasmed and spanked, humiliated live on the Internet.”

“Stop calling me Jane,” she spat, ripping her hands from the untied ropes. “That’s not my name.”

“Of course it is! You’re Jane Trent!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Don’t fuck with me! I know as you spoke to me. You’re Jane.”

“I’m not!” She screeched. He looked him closing a laptop lid balanced on top of a blue suitcase, with the yellow flower on the front. “And that’s not my suitcase.”

“It was! You were holding it.”

“Mine doesn’t have a yellow flower. Mine’s blue but without the flower.”

“Oh shit!” He cried, the walls loudly echoing his profanity. “But … but … you picked up the wrong suitcase! Jane Trent paid for … this! We sorted it out on the ‘net.” Rita stepped away from the BDSM equipment and rubbed her sore bottom. “She said she’d be on the flight from Denmark with that suitcase and we were to take her and do … this. You’ve got to be Jane!”

“I’m not!” She yelled. He picked up the purse from her handbag. “And leave that. It’s mine.”

“Rita!” He spat as he looked at her work ID card. “Who the fuck is Rita?”

“The woman you just violated, asswipe!”

“I didn’t … it was … ummm … I’m so sorry. It was just a little misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding!” She cried. “You sexually assaulted me, and you call it a misunderstanding! Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“We destroyed them,” he admitted, looking sheepish. “It was part of the deal. She wanted us to. It was her fantasy.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “That’s what we do, act out people’s fantasies. We set it up with her, and she’d be holding that suitcase, so we knew it was her. We do fantasies and you never gave us the safewords we agreed.”

“Because you didn’t agree in any fucking safewords with me!”

He hummed. “Sorry.” He shrugged.

She snorted and her eyes narrowed on the floor. “You act out any fantasy?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“Pretty much?”

“Yeah, well, some fantasies we can help with. Some, we can’t.”

“You mean only ones when the woman is powerless?”

“You said that, not me.”

Rita picked up the twelve-inch strap-on that she was threatened with, and held it out in front of her. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a man up the arse with one of these,” she said smirking. “Live on the Internet. It’s my fantasy.”

“Err … love, I …”

“Bend over. I have some lube,” she said as she picked up the Deep Heat. “ … or I’ll report you to the Police.”

“Fuck!” The fearsome glare on the naked, confident woman stepping into the strap-on, told him he had no hope.